


Layover

by nogoaway



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e13 4C coda, Love, M/M, Sappy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5686576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I said no such thing. Only that it would be unethical, not to mention unwise, to sleep with an employee."</p><p>An entirely unnecessary 4C coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layover

They didn't stay in Rome long after John's fitting. Finch flitted and fretted and twittered with his tailor friend in rapid Italian while John stood on a stool with his arms out, fingers curled delicately around warm, pine-smelling air and tried not to hope. He'd known that Finch spoke Italian, of course ("How else to read Dante, Mr. Reese?"), but he hadn't realized the man was so fluent. John couldn't follow the conversation even if he'd wanted to, full of brisk stops and subtle vowels, numbers rattled off too quickly for him to distinguish where one ended and the next began.

They left the tailors with John in one new suit and an unknown, undoubtedly large number of them to be shipped at a later date. John didn't protest when Finch stopped in the middle of the street, rotated sharply on one heel, and corralled John through a glass door and into a barber's chair. He knew he needed a shave. And a haircut, too, apparently.

He watched Finch in the corner of the mirror while a sour old man worked him over. Finch was seated primly in a wooden chair and paging through something on a tablet John had never seen before. It took thirty five minutes and Finch did not look up at them once, except to indicate that he'd like John's hair a bit shorter in the back, please.

John was rubbing the back of his own neck distractedly, the sun too bright in his eyes, when they stepped back out onto the Via Cavour. A white sedan pulled up in front of them with a promptness that indicated the driver had been circling the block for some time. Finch ushered him into the back seat and then stepped around to the side to slide in next to him. The driver didn't turn around or speak. Neither did Finch, until they were well outside the city and cruising down the coastal highway, the sea blue and endless on their right.

"Since we have the opportunity," he said, looking past Reese out at the water, "I much prefer the Bay of Naples."

It was five hours to Sorrento, and then an hour more of slow rumbling along hilly back-roads as gradually the towering resort hotels gave way to farmland and low, rustic buildings, the paved roads to narrow winding paths traced by unbroken tossed stone walls. John dozed, cracking the window open far enough for the wind to ruffle his damp hair and the smell of salt to soothe him. He didn't have any bad memories of Italy, at least not the shore.

They had dinner in a tiny, walled garden lit by citronella candles in the back of a white plaster building bristling with vines. It was not a restaurant, or at least not a proper one; no menu, but two other pairs of diners were sitting indoors and glanced up at Finch and John as they were led through a maze of tables out into the gloaming and presented with wine flutes and a wooden tray of appetizers.

Finch shook off his linen suit and hung it over the back of his chair, undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. After a moment, John did the same.

It had occurred to John somewhere between Ostia and Pompeii that Finch was showing off for him; not the ostentatious way someone else of his astronomic wealth might, with posh hotels and expensive wine, but the more subtle, cultured showing off of Finch's knowledge, Finch's _access_ to places foreign and hidden. Places John would never know existed, much less be taken to. It was showing off, he thought, the way Finch deftly scraped the meat of an oyster from the shell with a bone-handled steak knife, the way Finch negotiated with their waiter in rapid Italian about-- John didn't know what, exactly. The wine, maybe, or their meal; food came out in stages over the course of the evening, all of it fresh and simple and so good John didn't quite know what to do with the experience of eating it. The wines were probably excellent, too, but he didn't have the palate to tell.

Finch showing off his resources meant Finch reminding John exactly what a partnership with him entailed. State of the art intel, access to whatever weaponry John wanted. Having Finch as his handler was the best deal John was ever going to get, and they both knew it.

"I already agreed to come back," John said, over soft folds of _pacchieri alla genovese._

"I know." Finch set his wine glass down, slid it along the white cotton tablecloth until the base tinked quietly against one of his discarded cuff links.

John watched Finch's long, squared fingers caress the stem of the glass, watched the wet shine of wine on his lips. Watched Finch watch him, and suddenly it all made sense; the day, the suit, the shave, even the oyster.

"You said you didn't want me," John accused, and waited a beat before he set his fork on the edge of the bowl, lest it come off as aggressive.

Finch pursed his lips. "I said no such thing. Only that it would be unethical, not to mention unwise, to sleep with an employee."

Which was all very true. John took a hearty gulp of wine.

"Unwise," Finch repeated, and his fingers crept along the table to brush against John's, rough callous and smooth nail, "since our work is too important to compromise. You know that I need you, not just at the moment, but as a contingency, and should something-- I trust you don't need me to explain--"

"'Don't shit where you eat', Finch," John said, delighted at the glare of affront from across the table. Finch didn't move his hand, though. "I get it."

"Yes." Finch swallowed, and the fingers pushed closer, the tip of Finch's thumb skating over the knob of John's wrist. "However. Seeing as we are currently on the other side of the world from where we eat, as you so crudely put it--" He trailed off.

John licked his lips. "I'm not back on the clock yet?"

"Not technically, no." Finch cleared his throat. "It occurs to me that we've never made any kind of arrangement for leave time--"

"OSHA would be very disappointed with my working conditions," John agreed. "You're lucky I've never filed a complaint."

Finch graced him with a long-suffering look. "John. _Must_ you?"

John allowed himself a slow, toothy smile that turned filthy at the edges. "Harold. If you're only offering the weekend, then yes, I'm afraid I must."

"The night," Harold corrected, and John fought to keep the smile on his face, not to let the pain and disappointment show. "The night, John."

John didn't bother arguing that it was unfair. Harold knew that already. "The night," he agreed, and stood abruptly, sealing one hand around Harold's wrist and laying his napkin on the table with the other. "I assume you've paid already?"

"Yes. Although I really would like a coffee--" Harold was standing up anyway, reaching for his suit jacket.

"Too bad," John said, letting a hint of vicious disappointment slip in. "I'm not the one who set our time table."

Finch glanced up at him over the frame of his glasses, something soft and sad in his face, but nowhere near an apology. John knew he wasn't going to get one.

"So where are we staying our 'the night'?" he asked, shrugging into his jacket and collecting Finch's cuff links from the table, slipping them into his pocket.

"Next door," Finch admitted, and blushed violently, neck to the tops of his ears. "It's a bed and breakfast. I took the liberty of reserving the second floor."

"Ambitious," John teased, and took his own liberty by settling his palm in the small of Harold's back, thumb rubbing slow circles along the beige waistcoat.

"Private," Harold corrected.

"Why Harold," John purred, and guided them back into the building and past the remaining table of diners, nodding to the young woman at the counter who had seated them "Are you suggesting that I'm loud?"

Outside, brim of his hat pulled down over his face, the driver was leaning up against the stone wall and smoking. Fireflies blinked greenly on and off at random.

John leaned down a little once the door shut behind them, breathed warmly in Harold's left ear. He was too hot, all of a sudden, and regretted putting his jacket back on. "Or that I can make you loud?"

Harold's back muscles twitched under John's palm. He didn't say anything, just took off down the side of the dirt road at a quicker pace than John expected from him at night, in an unfamiliar place.

"I'll have to find out," John mused, and followed.

* * *

  
Harold had indeed rented the second floor, and since the building only _had_ two floors, and they appeared to be the only people in it other than the driver of the sedan who unlocked the door to let them in before vanishing into the night, Harold had effectively rented the entire B &B.

"Will I be making us breakfast?" John wondered, flicking the lights on in the entrance hall and peering through an open door towards the kitchen.

"If you'd like," Harold said. He was still standing in the doorway, jacket folded over one arm, looking around as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

"Not what you expected?"

"It is exactly as I arranged," Harold said, distantly. "If you would please go upstairs and to the furthest room on the left, I would like a moment to myself."

John stared at him, undecided on whether he wanted to obey. Harold looked small in the doorway, back even more rigid than usual.

"Don't be long." John said, finally. He went upstairs, and turned left.

The room was clean, and spacious; queen-sized bed neatly made with a blue bedspread and check pillows, a tiny desk and tinier carved chair near the far window. Some bookshelves, crammed with hardbacks, a standing floor lamp by the desk and two swing-arm wall lamps over the bed on either side. Thin linen drapes pulled back by wooden hooks, an ensuite bathroom and an oak dresser.

John turned off the floor lamp and left the shaded wall lamps on, folded his suit over the back of the chair, and undressed. By the time he heard Harold's slow, uneven step coming up the stairs, he was down to briefs. He stripped them off, too. It was going on 1900. No point in lollygagging.

As John bent to fold the underwear on top of his other clothes, the door shut. He didn't turn around, just straightened and stood, watching Finch's reflection in the dark pane of the window.

"I imagine you've been told before," Finch said "that you're beautiful."

John shrugged. It was true, he had. It was never something that concerned him one way or the other, though.

Harold began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. "In case you've formulated any complex plans, I should warn you that I'm not a young man any longer. One round is my limit."

John resisted the urge to take that as a challenge, and said instead, "We'll make it count, then."

In the window, Finch's fingers paused at the top button of his dress shirt, and John was suddenly tired of waiting. He spun on his heel, crossed the room in two strides, and knelt to undo Harold's belt and slacks. Harold's hands hovered above his head and neck for a moment, startled, before returning to the shirt. John started on the lower buttons and met him in the middle, stripping it off Finch's shoulders as Finch stepped out of his pants. John pressed his face to the soft curve of Harold's stomach through the cotton undershirt and inhaled, shuddering.

Harold's hand settled on the back of his neck lightly, brushing at freshly shorn hair. His fingertips were cool and John was fever hot all over, running his palms down Harold's calves and taking the socks with him, desperate for skin. When Harold finally stripped the undershirt off John straightened to press his nose into the slope of Harold's collarbone, breathing him in hungrily.

"The bed, I think," Harold said, and John bit his tongue and let Finch lead them over with small, limping steps.

Finch spent a moment arranging himself, moving pillows to accommodate his neck and folding his glasses on the table, and finally shifted onto his left side, holding out a hand in invitation. John took it, heart pounding, and then he was lying beside Harold Finch on a bed and they were kissing.

It was intolerable; the idea that John, having had this, could ever give it up. Finch kissed slowly, patiently, and with great concentration. Even with blood rushing in his ears and his head on a repeat loop of disbelief, John picked up patterns in the slide of Finch's tongue, the occasional soft nip of lips or teeth; he recognized the long-haul strategy in Harold's moving back to scatter kisses over John's cheek and chin, only to breathe deeply before dipping in again. He didn't kiss with his whole body, just his mouth. One hand rested on John's shoulder, neither pulling nor pushing, just steadying himself. He kissed like he was building something complex and sprawling, like he had the whole of it in mind, and John wanted to say 'we can't do it in a night, Harold, we have to have time, you have to give me more time', but he couldn't stop kissing Finch long enough to get the words out.

Harold Finch kissed only with his mouth, but John was never good at keeping himself still, and he sealed himself to Finch's body, sliding one leg between Finch's thighs and hooking an arm around his waist to pull him close. Finch's skin was hot, and soft, and he was all sharp angles and cushioned flesh against John's dense frame, unbearably precious. When John ghosted his palm over the scars at his lower back Finch sighed into his mouth; when John cupped one plump buttock in his hand Finch gasped. John petted him there, kneading and squeezing, until Harold tore away from him, panting.

"That is," he said, lips and chin shining and face blotchy pink, "exceedingly distracting, Mr. Reese."

"John," John corrected, and worked his other hand between Harold's stomach and the mattress to get hold of the other cheek. God, but Harold felt good in his hands, warm and solid. Felt good under his mouth, when John kissed down his throat and onto his chest, matted with greying hair. He was so real, and so dear. So perfect. John mouthed at one pink nipple, pressed his forehead to Harold's breastbone and listened to his heart rabbiting in his chest. Or maybe it was John's own, fast in flight.

"John," Harold hummed, and stroked his hair. "Is there something specific you'd like? I'm not certain what this--" John licked the other nipple, grazed his teeth over it. "Oh. What this is."

"Liar," John groaned, and pulled Finch tight against him again, feeling the swell of Finch's cock against his stomach and letting Finch feel John's own hardness against his thigh. "You know exactly what this is."

Harold dug blunt fingernails into John's neck, a warning, and dragged him back up into a kiss. This one was less sweet, but equally dizzying. John wrapped his arms around Harold's shoulders and clung.

"Still--" Harold panted, between bruising kisses and the soft grunts he couldn't seem to help making every time John rolled his hips against Harold's thigh. "Nevertheless-- oh. Don't say anything you will-- oh-- regret--"

By that point, it was really an issue of what John would regret more; saying it, knowing they only had the night, or not saying it, the one time he might be able to.

Historically, John had always regretted not saying things more, in the end. Which was another thing Finch knew damn well.

"Actually, there is something specific," he rasped, and cupped Harold's face in his hands, forcing Harold to look at him.

Finch blinked owlishly. "John," he murmured, but the reprimand had no heat in it, only resignation.

John stroked his cheek, the bristly sideburns and softer hair at his temple. "Make love to me."

Harold ran a hand along his side, shoulder to hip. "I am."

"No." John kissed the corner of his mouth, the sad turn of it. "Fuck me. I'm asking."

Harold sighed against his chin. "Is that really--"

"Yes." John swallowed, and there was no point regretting anything, no point holding anything back. "I love you, and I have one night, and I want to feel you inside of me."

Finch hissed out a stuttering breath.

"You like that," John realized, and of course it was quite fitting, that Finch would like _words_ "You like when I say--" he licked his lips "That I want you to open me up with your fingers, and fill me with your hard cock, and fuck me--"

"John," Harold croaked.

"You could any time, you know," John continued, ruthless. "I'd let you. I'd want you to. In the library, just bend me over your desk and have me. At my apartment, in that big empty bed you bought me--"

"Don't--"

"Or take me to your place," and John was really going now, determined to regret not a word, to leave no secret unrevealed, no fantasy unshared. "Wherever it is. I'd move in, if you wanted, you could fuck me every morning, dress me in whatever you like, I'd cook for you. Suck you off in the shower, Finch--"

Harold grasped one of John's hands and brought it to his lips, kissed his bruised knuckles.

"Read on the sofa," John breathed, "your head in my lap. Make love to you every night. Harold. I'd fall asleep holding you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, John." Harold uncurled John's fingers gently, kissed his palm. "I know."

"I love you," John said, resting their foreheads together. "I love you. I'd grow old with you."

Harold's eyelashes brushed his fingers.

"Tell me you don't want that, too," John dared him.

"You know I can't," Harold said, and John knew it, and knew how it meant many things at once, all of them unavoidable. "Please--" He stiffened under John's hands. "There should be... provisions in the ensuite. Under the sink."

John closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, letting the words go. He'd said them; that was enough. It had to be. Already something was unraveling in his chest, a tight knot that he hadn't known was constricting him until it slipped away. He didn't feel any happier, or any lighter having said it, but-- at least he had. At least he was able to. He hadn't been, before.

There were indeed 'provisions' in the ensuite. John didn't linger, didn't turn the lights on. He didn't want to see his own face.

Minutes later Harold was pressing into him with a gasp, slick hand clutching at John's ribs so tightly it left pale marks on his skin, and no, John couldn't regret this. The soft sounds Finch made, that tumbled out of his mouth with every slow, deep thrust, they were so vulnerable. So precious; the truest, most intimate things Harold Finch had ever told John Reese, and they weren't even words. Not having this again-- he'd survive it, somehow. But he wouldn't regret it at all.

He fell asleep with Harold's fingers curled slackly against the back of his neck, Harold breathing slow and deep directly onto his chest. Harold Finch didn't snore, but there was an occasional soft whistling noise from one of his nostrils; John allowed himself to find it endearing. He wasn't going to be in bed with Harold Finch often enough for such quirks to turn grating. He wasn't going to fall slowly out of love with Harold Finch and come to hate the way he breathed, or sneezed, or chewed. He wasn't going to get the chance.

Small blessings, John figured.

* * *

  
  
Finch was still fast asleep when John woke up to sunlight filtering through the drapes and an actual rooster crowing. He didn't even shift when John got up, pulled on yesterday's pants, and headed into the ensuite to brush his teeth. Jet lag, John realized. Finch had been awake just as long as he had yesterday, but John was used to all-nighters.

By the time John had whipped up a six-egg mushroom and pepper omelet and split it in half, though, Harold was fully dressed and sitting at one of the tables in the dining area. He was not, John noted, in yesterday's anything, and he was typing something into the tablet with one hand and frowning at the phone held in the other. John setting the plate down in front of him produced no reaction, but pouring out a helping of tea into a mug did.

"It's black," Harold said.

"It is."

"I requested green."

"Couldn't find it." John shrugged. "You'll live."

Finch sipped delicately at the tea. His eyebrows went up. "I expect I will. And quite energetically at that."

John started in on his omelet. "You had someone stock the dresser for you?"

"Just a change of clothes. There's one in your size as well, of course."

"I'm fine." Let the poor B&B owner find a home for what was undoubtedly a very expensive pair of trousers and a dress shirt. John strongly suspected that Harold had bought out the guests who were already staying here and redirected them to some egregiously pricey Sorrento hotel, brought in a speed cleaning team, and arranged for his private sartorial army to supply a fresh herringbone jacket, condoms, and three varieties of personal lubricant. It wasn't quite on the order of two private security companies and a credit bureau, but at least Harold didn't think John was a cheap date.

"What's in Istanbul?" Harold asked, and it was so sudden and direct and unlike him that John startled a little, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Finch was looking at him, hands folded over the tablet. The phone was off.

John recovered his bite of omelet, thought about his options for the few seconds it took to chew. "Raki," he said, finally. "Kebabs. Memories."

"Not good ones."

"On the contrary. The kebabs are excellent."

Harold sighed, and took a long sip of his tea.

"Do you really want to know?" John asked, because he'd tell Finch if he wanted, at least some of it. Not all of it. Not even John remembered all of it; assignments faded together after a while, a monotony of marks and hotel rooms and disposal, distinguishable only by moments of absurdity or difficulty: Mark Snow drowning a German national in an embassy toilet, Kara Stanton in a black balaclava staring at a little girl who had been lying under an StB agent when she shot him in his bedroom. Having to dig out a man's teeth with vanity tweezers because Mark hadn't warned them there would be company coming, dropping out of a third story window into a vendor stall full of sweaters.

"No," Finch said, after a moment "I suppose I don't. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The morning outside was crisp and dry; John's feet stirred up dust on the road. Next to him, Harold was walking slowly as to avoid it, casting annoyed glances at his pant cuffs, where the pale dirt was sticking in fine washes. John adjusted his pace accordingly.

He considered kissing Harold one last time while the sun was warm on their faces, just for comparison. He considered it all the way down the hill, where the sedan was waiting with its trunk open next to a row of outdated gas pumps and a station that was little more than a shack. It had no windows, just a glass door with a sheet of paper stuck to the interior that read 'caffe' in block print, the rear end of an air conditioning unit poking out of one wall, and a pay phone directly below that.

Harold paused at the foot of the hill. "I hope that I've sufficiently--" he said, and huffed, the noise he made when he was annoyed with his own inability to do something promptly and correctly. It was not a noise John heard often. "That you know that I-- if I could. I would. That is--"

"It's okay, Finch," John said, smiling because it really was all right, all of a sudden. He slipped one hand into his jacket pocket, where Harold's cuff links bit at his fingertips. "We'll always have Naples. Or wherever this is."

The phone rang.


End file.
